


More Often Than I Like, I Think of You

by rogue_pixie88



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:44:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rogue_pixie88/pseuds/rogue_pixie88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a favour to best friend Sandy, Jensen agrees to a double date. Much to his surprise, his date is someone from his past—a someone his mind has tried its hardest to forget, while his heart won’t let him. As Jared pursues him to resume their relationship, both of them have to decide whether a life together is what they really want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Often Than I Like, I Think of You

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: veggie17
> 
> Disclaimer: The story is mine, their names and faces are not.

Jensen curses his lack of backbone when it comes to Sandy’s persuasive smiles, pleading eyes and convincing arguments the moment they step over the threshold of the restaurant. It’s like everything possible that could make things worse is conspiring to do just that. The music playing is that awfully clichéd romantic violin crap, matched only by the annoying babble of superficial small talk of people pretending to be who their date wants; both sounds merge to grate on Jensen’s ears. He’s going to have a kicker of a headache later, that’s for sure. And no doubt there’ll be tiny portions of pretentious food that he won’t be able to pronounce and glasses of extravagant wine when he’d be happier with a burger and a beer. Collectively, it leaves him wondering why the ability to say _thanks for the invite, Sandy, but no thanks; there’s a million other things I’d rather do_ , suddenly deserted him when she told him about this.

Sensing his reservations, Sandy smiles encouragingly at Jensen as they shrug out of their coats and check them in at the door. She adjusts the thin straps of the dress on her shoulders, and then knocks Jensen’s hand away from fussing with the knot of the tie that sits snugly at his throat—the tie she _made_ him wear. He goes to snap at her for mothering him only to be deterred when her smile brightens considerably, and her hand searches out his. “Thank you for doing this, Jensen; it really means a lot.”

Groaning under his breath, Jensen returns her smile, squeezes her fingers. That utterly grateful expression of hers is precisely the reason he’s dressed in the only suit he owns, tie choking him, and attending a stupid double date. A _blind_ date on his part. All Sandy had divulged on their shared cab ride to the restaurant was how perfect the guy was for him. And that wasn’t even _her_ opinion.

No, Jensen’s here because some guy Sandy has an insane crush on asked her out and wondered if maybe she had a friend for his friend; a friend who really needed to get out of the house and indulge in a little socializing. But good taste in purchasing one of Jensen’s drawings from Sandy’s gallery, _The Athena_ , doesn’t mean he has the first clue what type of guy is perfect for Jensen. _Jensen_ can’t even figure that out.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m an amazing best friend who is not above accepting a number of extremely expensive and disgustingly flashy gifts as tokens of gratitude.” he admits modestly, causing Sandy to chuckle.

All of a sudden serious, Sandy says, “You might even have fun, you know. Six months is long enough to mope over—”

Jensen lifts a finger to stop her right there. If she wants him to have fun then bringing up things— _people_ —he wants to leave in the past is not the way to go. “Sandy, don’t.”

“I just mean—”

“Really, don’t. Let’s go, huh? Don’t want Michael thinking that you’ve stood him up.” Her eyes widen a little at that. Seeing the tiniest flicker of genuine worry, Jensen teases her. Payback for dragging him out. “Mm-hm, he’ll wait at the table for hours until all the couples around him leave, staring forlornly into his empty glass. And then he’ll spend the next ten years dramatically mourning the girl who got away. He’ll be little more than a broken man.”

Cuffing his arm deceptively hard considering her size, Sandy rebukes him, “Don’t say things like that! I’ll be a wreck through dinner now.” She stalks off, but doesn’t do too well at hiding her amused expression. Jensen shakes his head. Then he takes a deep breath to prepare himself for whoever waits for him beyond the foyer, following Sandy only when he’s good and ready.

In the restaurant proper, she’s already spotted Michael. He stands to greet her and Jensen sees her blush prettily at what’s obviously a compliment on tonight’s chosen look. Which, thank God, because it makes the five-hundred different combinations of shoes, dresses and hairstyles he suffered through all worth it. His heart swells at the sight of Sandy so happy, suppressing and squashing that nasty reluctance at being here. Jensen can suck it up for a few hours and not make this evening a complete disaster. As long as his date can hold a decent conversation and doesn’t display any psychotic tendencies, he can cope for his friend’s sake. Maybe Sandy would even be proved correct and Jensen would have fun.

It’s a theory that holds up right until Jensen catches first sight of the guy as he returns from the restroom. All six feet four inches of him and his floppy hair, a dimpled smile that easily outshines the restaurant’s dim lighting, plus an expensive suit that gives the impression he’s just stepped off the set of a glossy cover shoot for a magazine. If hotshot lawyers posed for magazine covers, that is.

Jensen freezes mere steps from the table. He ignores the sharp intake of air that Sandy’s responsible for. Or maybe it was his; it’s hard to be sure right this instant. Everything in his brain is scrambled thoroughly because out of all the available men in this goddamn city, Jensen’s date has to be Jared-freaking-Padalecki.

Reaching the table, Jared’s grin doesn’t falter when his gaze lands on Jensen. There’s a spark of something—surprise, perhaps—but no further outward signs of him being fazed by his prospective date. He simply drops a kiss of greeting on Sandy’s slack-from-shock cheek and turns to address Jensen.

Smooth as anything, like there’s no bad blood between them, he says, “Hey, Jen. It’s been a while.” There it is. _Jen_. Only _Jared_ ever called him that. And Jensen can’t cope with that kind of familiarity now.

“Sandy.” Resolutely paying no mind to the polite extension of Jared’s hand, Jensen manages to keep his tone light and amicable when inside he’s a second away from an emotional meltdown right in the middle of everyone’s meal. “Can I speak with you outside a moment?”

Not waiting for an answer or to see Michael and Jared’s reactions, he swiftly retraces his previous steps to the foyer and the cool night-time temperature of the street outside. Once there, Jensen leans heavily against the brick of the building, eyelids squeezed shut. He has to pour every ounce of energy into not bolting because _dammit_ he can do this. Jensen isn’t going to let Jared undo everything he’s struggled to lock away.

A comforting hand is placed on his arm and Jensen hesitates in opening his eyes, unsure what he’ll do if by some cruel twist of fate Jared happens to be the owner of that touch. Luckily, he’s saved the dilemma; Sandy looks deeply sympathetic as she comes into focus. “You okay, sweetie?”

“No.” He swallows hard. “Tell me the truth, Sandy: Did you know it was Jared who Michael was bringing tonight?”

Her mouth forms a tiny o of hurt, brow wrinkling also. “Of course not. You really think that I’d do that to you? No guy is worth deliberately hurting you.” She shoots him a sly look. “Not even one with an ass like Michael’s.”

Jensen sighs, says nothing. The two of them stand there on the sidewalk in mutual silence, letting the world go by.

Soon Sandy pulls in a breath much the same as the one Jensen did to steel himself for his date, and her sympathy turns to hope. “I have no right to ask this of you, but we are here. And— and Michael’s waiting in there. I know that Jared hurt you, but I would love for us to go back in and at least try to enjoy tonight.”

Feeling rather incredulous at what Sandy’s hinting, Jensen has to make sure he understands. “Let me get this straight: You want me to sit in that fancy restaurant, making nice with the asshole that dumped me for no apparent reason just so you can get laid by a hottie you met once?”

“Twice, actually,” is Sandy’s quick reply. Likely harsher than she originally intended. But they’ve never really been able to stay mad at each other for long so what follows is gentler, more affectionate. “The second time we talked for hours and Michael is absolutely amazing. I haven’t clicked with a guy like this in so long. _Please_ , Jensen. I’ll never ask you for anything again. I’ll owe you forever.” She hangs on his arm, tugging childishly. Jensen gives her thirty seconds before she starts to bargain with tidying her room and eating her greens to get him to agree.

“You _already_ owe me forever,” he reminds her. “Freshman year at college, I stayed with you and your folks over Thanksgiving. During that time your whole family convinced themselves that you and I were a couple. An _engaged_ couple.” He puts extra emphasis on the word engaged to make sure Sandy fully comprehends the severity of her family’s assumption. “I spent the week enduring threats ranging from broken legs to grisly death should I ever hurt you. Not to mention a slew of the most embarrassing wedding night tips I have ever heard.”

Thanks _very_ much to both Sandy’s cousin and her happily married older brother.

“Yeah,” sighs Sandy, almost wistfully. “My mom was really distraught when I finally admitted that you were gay and we were only friends. Even now she gets a little weepy when I mention you. I think that she’s mourning the loss of children with your cheekbones and eyes.” The glare she receives is venomous; Jensen is nowhere near impressed and certainly not set on going back inside. “Okay, so I’ll owe you _two_ forevers.”

Deliberating with his conscience, torn between being selfish and ruining his best friend’s night—a night she’s gushed about for two days—and manning up to face Jared, Jensen watches Sandy watching him. He pulls her against his chest, hugging her once before releasing her.

“Make it _three_ forevers and you’ve got yourself a deal, McCoy.” The wind is knocked from his lungs as she barrels back towards him, arms winding around his waist. “Come on,” Jensen impels as he ushers them back indoors. “Or he really will think that you’ve ditched him.”

*

To be honest, the evening hadn’t progressed as quite the train wreck Jensen imagined; or so he reflects the next morning as he enjoys his first cup of coffee of the day. He sits on the back doorstep, the stone cool under his bare feet, hot mug cradled in his palms as he replays last night in his head. Jensen chuckles softly to himself when he recalls that somehow he and Jared accomplished a civil conversation or two, mostly discussing the world’s most trivial and mundane matters. They spoke nothing of their history and avoided all personal minutiae; just random, useless small-talk that allowed Sandy to relax. Allowed her to rightly neglect her self-appointed guard duty and actually talk to Michael, and participate in her date.

When they brought their chatter around to _The Athena_ and ultimately Jensen’s artwork—which Michael _adored_ and begged first look at any future pieces—Jared had abandoned fruitlessly picking at his slice of cheesecake, and paid attention. Something which wouldn’t have struck Jensen as odd if they were still together. Despite not having the same flair of appreciation for art Jensen possessed, Jared was always interested in _Jensen’s_ art; listening when he began to ramble about color and perspective and the piece in question’s significance, and giving an honest opinion about whatever Jensen created personally.

While it could have been his true feelings—which Jensen would love—it could have just as easily been due to an obligation Jared felt, pretending to feign interest and input purely because they were involved romantically. Jensen can’t help but wonder: _if that was the case, why all the attention last night_? Jared no longer owed him that courtesy.

In fact, Jensen spent his solitary cab ride back to his house contemplating the matter, only to continue as he lay curled up in bed waiting for sleep to take him. Feasibly it could have simply been Jared listening to Michael, rather than care about the actual topic. Settling on that very reason for the sake of his sanity, Jensen put the subject to bed, knowing he’d never get anything done if he carried on wondering and what for-ing.

Draining the last of his coffee, he stands and stretches until his joints settle comfortably and his muscles relax, and then wanders inside; his head clear of all thoughts of Jared. He manages to keep his mind away from all Jared-related avenues of thought as he showers and dresses. His resolve holds as he climbs into his truck, blasting the radio as he eases onto the road, and the black ribbon of tarmac begins to disappear under his tires. Sadly, it falters when he unlocks the door to his studio, and remembers out of nowhere that stored away in a cupboard is a box of mostly full sketchbooks. Sketchbooks mostly full of Jared.

It’s funny, but after he gave up trying to get in touch with Jared, in touch with anybody who knew where he might be, and gave up the hope he was coming back, Jensen had leafed through those sketchbooks one last time before he could stand to put them away. _Out of sight, out of mind_ ; Jensen recalls it ran through his head like a mantra. He’d found himself so sure that they were filled with drawings of some kind of dream Jared. There was no way his smile could have been that warm, loving; his eyes so alight with mischief and good spirit. It had to be some trick played on Jensen’s mind by the rush of emotion he felt for him. However, last night, Jensen was proved wrong; his artistic imaginings paled in comparison to what really made up Jared Padalecki.

And _that_ broke Jensen’s heart a little more.

Just to torture himself a little more, Jensen wanders over to the cupboard. He fishes out the box from beneath spare canvasses, new pencils, and a plastic bag full of crusted over paint tubes that should have been thrown out months ago. Setting it on his workspace he stares at it for a few moments; he chews his lip until it’s sore, chiding himself for agonizing over something as stupid as looking over old artwork. With a shake of his head Jensen up-ends the box, and begins to sort through the used books, selecting one to open. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with a bit of therapeutic reminiscing.

 _Yeah, Jensen, keep telling yourself that._

*

Around lunch, Sandy shows up at the studio. She lets herself in—a particular personality trait of hers that irks Jensen something wicked no matter how close they are. Although the enticing sight of coffee and Danish pastries does soothe the injury somewhat. Pushing aside a pile of scrap paper that Jensen’s doodling listlessly on, she sets down her offering and removes her bag from her shoulder, hooking it across the back of Jensen’s chair. She then collects her drink and half-eaten snack, and retires to the worn loveseat that’s propped against the only wall devoid of artwork, where she proceeds to tuck her legs under her body.

“What’s with the pastries, Sandy?” Jensen asks. He skips his usual good-natured hello, and ignores the fact her heels are digging into the cushion of the couch. “Feeling guilty about last night and getting started on the many presents I’m owed?” Sandy knows that Danishes just happen to be one of his well-documented weaknesses. Damn that bakery across the street.

Sandy snorts her response in a completely unladylike fashion around a mouthful. “You wish, Ackles. After the night I had, it’s hard to feel guilty.”

“I hope you two used protection,” Jensen snipes, put out by her nonchalant attitude; he’d expected, _wanted_ , the tiniest amount of remorse. Nothing over the top, just... _something_. Suddenly her present of pastries seems a whole lot less appetizing. Instead he reaches for his cup, removes the lid and blows gently across the surface of the liquid; pretending to be utterly fascinated by the ripples caused by his breath.

“It didn’t get that far. Michael was a perfect gentleman; he saw me to my door and went home after a goodnight kiss. There doesn’t have to be sex to be left satisfied following a date, you know. We do, however, have another one tomorrow.”

Jensen _hmms_ and takes a sullen sip of his coffee; strong and black. Perfect. He watches through a lazy curl of steam as Sandy puts down her food, resting it on the cushion, and reaches for the cup she’d balanced beside her. A shapely eyebrow arches curiously; Jensen follows her line of sight to the arm of the loveseat, where a shirt lays abandoned. A shirt covered in multicolored paint splatters, black smudges of charcoal, and a hidden away graffiti scrawl of _J &J_ written in thick red marker following too much Tequila and drunk on love.

“What’s with the Cowboy’s jersey, Jensen? Don’t recall you ever being a sports fan.” She says this with a slight frown, clearly finding it inconceivable that there’s something about him she doesn’t know.

But sports? God, _no_. Jensen finds sport mind-numbingly tedious. The dislike stems from his childhood when his dad insisted on pushing him where his older brother went willingly; from basketball to soccer, baseball to track, when all Jensen wanted was to stay in a quiet room and draw.

“It was Jared’s, actually,” he informs her honestly.

Sandy’s tone is surprised, “Oh. I thought that he collected all of his stuff.” Her eyes darken. “Or sent _Chad_ to do it anyway. He miss it?”

Jensen shakes his head. Chad had thoroughly cleared each and every trace of Jared from the house they shared; his toothbrush from the plastic cup on the shelf above the sink, movies, books and CDs from the cabinet in the den, his fine suits from their closet—all of it and more removed as though Jared had never existed. And with the final box tucked under an arm and an expression that said he hadn’t embraced his task at all, Chad had held out his hand and let something drop into Jensen’s palm, heavy with finality—the key to his house.

“I was always complaining about screwing up my shirts with paint and God knows what else; Jared suggested I paint shirtless.”

She looks at him, her face graced with a suggestive smirk. “I’m sure he had absolutely no ulterior motives there.”

Wishing he could prevent the stupidly nostalgic smile that tugs at his mouth, Jensen remembers protesting the exact same thing when Jared said it. “The next time he came to my studio, he brought that. Said it was big enough to wear over my own shirt. That he didn’t mind if I covered it in _arty crap,/i > because he had another.”_

 _The garment had a great practical use as protective coveralls; the material hung nicely beyond the hems of Jensen's own shirts, guarding it from all manners of stains that he normally acquired. And the other use—the slightly more embarrassing one Jensen would _never_ voluntarily admit to, and especially not to Sandy—it acted like some kind of security blanket. Something tangible of Jared’s that remained when the man himself didn’t; a function that meant so much more when he left Jensen’s life for good. And just like the sketchbooks Jensen has so far been unable to part ways with it._

“So, he gave you one of his favourite shirts with permission to wreck it in order to save yours? That is so sweet.” Her coffee is finished by this time, the empty cup finding its way to the trash can beneath Jensen’s workspace. Sandy returns her attention to her Danish, and Jensen thinks maybe her brain’s been addled somehow. The amount of sugar she dumps in her coffee has warped her thinking, and made her forget who the _sweet_ guy is that they’re discussing.

“Yeah, Jared was always such a sweetheart.” His steps down memory lane come to a grinding stop; his feet no longer willing to walk such a painful path. “Especially when he upped and left with no warning. I felt so loved then, Sandy.”

He’s permitted a few moments to stew in his conversation halting bitterness before Sandy grows tired of his attitude and clears her throat. “Speaking of you and him.”

Damn, he _knew_ he shouldn’t have stayed last night. Sandy’s a big girl; she would have figured out something to tell Michael and Jared. Jared wouldn’t necessarily have bought it considering their history but what would that have mattered? His path isn’t likely to cross Jared’s again, not if Jensen has anything to say about it. He grits his teeth. “What about me and Jared?”

“You seemed to get on alright at the restaurant.”

“We hardly talked,” Jensen mumbles. He begins to pick at the fruit of his Danish, ceasing almost immediately. His appetite is completely gone now that the unwanted topic of Jared has come up properly. He shuns the snack, once more picking up his coffee. Luckily, small sips don’t add further discomfort to the knot of knowledge weighing in his gut that Sandy isn’t going to shut up until every hurt and confused feeling Jensen experienced at dinner is out in the open, until she’s broken every bone of contention Jensen has.

“I don’t mean what you said to each other. Hell, you spent fifteen minutes bitching about _traffic_ in morning rush hour. _I_ was bored by that. But the body language was there; it’s obvious there are still strong feelings between the two of you. Michael picked up on it, too.”

“Yippee for him,” Jensen offers dryly.

Strong feelings of wanting to do serious damage with his cutlery maybe. Throughout dinner, Jared’s hand lay casually on the pristine tablecloth covered surface. It would have been so easy for Jensen to take his fork and sink the sharp tines into the flesh of his hand to give Jared a taste of the pain he felt, show him that sharp stab his heart suffered when Jared ended their relationship with no second thoughts and no explanation.

Leaning forward from her formerly relaxed position, Sandy scrutinizes him intently. “Jensen, you haven’t dated anyone since your break-up.”

“Wasn’t a break-up. Jared split. There was no actual voicing of parting ways.”

Rolling her eyes, Sandy takes no notice of his childish rejoinder and continues, “The only man you’ve been with since Jared is _Jared_. Does _that_ not tell you something?” Jensen notices she’s practically out of her seat now, teetering precariously on the edge, coming closer and closer to make sure he meets her gaze. Makes it easier to call his bullshit if needed.

“I haven’t dated anyone because I want to be alone. Gives me time to concentrate on my artwork. As the dealer of my work, shouldn’t you be pleased about that?”

“Sure. As your dealer, I’m ecstatic. As your best friend, I’m worried, Jensen. You _are_ alone; you don’t want to be. You’re pining for Jared.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Jensen bristles defensively. He has to try very hard not to crush the half-full fragile cardboard container in his hand as it instinctively balls up in anger. “I don’t pine.”

“You pined after Misha Collins when he decided to go with someone else.”

It’s Jensen’s turn to roll his eyes in scorn. “That was elementary school, Sandy. I was allowed.” After all, he’d shared his milk and cookies with shy little Misha only to have his heart crushed when his new friend was lured away by another kid’s offerings. But now he’s a grown man, an _adult_. He. Does. Not. Pine.

The urge to whip his now neglected Danish at Sandy gnaws at him when she hikes that eyebrow again, this time directed at Jensen personally, and points a fingernail to a spot on his desk. “Then why do you have all those sketchbooks out? The ones with pages and pages of him.”

Needlessly, Jensen’s gaze strays to the mentioned pile of books; he hadn’t realized that the topmost one was still open and displaying a simple black and white sketch of Jared asleep on the couch, at peace and breath-takingly gorgeous. He flips it shut abruptly to rid himself of the vision—ridiculous and futile as that sight will never fade—along with Sandy’s accusatory looks.

“All I want—” He is so far past pathetic and pining, it’s unreal, “—is a reason for him leaving.”

“Well, it isn’t going to be hidden in your drawings, honey. Jared’s the only one who can give you that. Maybe when he does you can move on.” She squeezes his knee compassionately. “Call Jared; meet him some place public and crowded where you’re less likely to end up killing each other or screwing on the nearest flat surface.” Jensen snorts; there’s no danger whatsoever of anything happening between them. Jared saw to that. “Get closure and move on.”

Said like that it all seems so unbelievably straightforward. He searches Sandy’s face for a waver of uncertainty in her own words beneath her earnest expression but finds none. He concedes that some kind of closure is what he needs; a definitive excuse for the end of what he thought was a strong relationship. Piece of mind that it perhaps it wasn’t his fault wouldn’t hurt either. But never in a million years is Jensen going to admit that he’s _pining_ for Jared.

He just _isn’t_.

*

Later, when he’s back at home, Jensen curls up in his battered leather armchair, a small sketchbook poised on his thighs, and a fire crackling and popping in the hearth. He flips open the book, and idly taps the soft point of his pencil against the side. Using his free hand he grasps the neck of his beer to liberate the bottle from where he shoved it between the cushion and the arm to keep it steady. He takes a long pull as he mulls over his earlier conversation with Sandy; irritated because it shouldn’t still be lingering in his mind when none of it was true. The alcohol warms his throat and gut. Jensen wishes it’d do the same for his cold feet; having them folded beneath him not warming them at all. They weren’t ever cold when Jared was here. He’d always disappear and return with a thick pair of socks. Alternatively, if Jensen refused to let him up, he’d allow Jensen to tuck them under his body and share body heat.

He forgets all that the moment his hand starts to move unconsciously across the page. The pencil seems to form sweeping lines and smooth curves, areas of light and dark, of its own accord; not needing Jensen’s mind to dictate movement. He draws silently, not one for noise or distraction; the very reason that there’s no radio or television in his studio.

Nearly all daylight has gone by the time Jensen tucks his pencil behind his ear. With only the faint glow of firelight illuminating the room, he’s forced to click on the lamp beside him to see his finished creation. Despite knowing deep in his heart what decorates the page his breath still catches because smiling tenderly up at him, is Jared.

So much for Sandy being off the mark. The only one deluding them self during that conversation was _him_.

*

For the second day in a row Jensen’s peace within the sanctuary of his studio is interrupted. This time it’s late afternoon, and Jensen knows for certain that Sandy is not the one knocking tentatively on the door.

Firstly because there’s no barging in and making herself comfortable on Jensen’s furniture, and secondly because Sandy has about a thousand and one things to do today. For weeks she’s been busy planning a show to drum up interest for new pieces of Jensen’s. And more recently she’s been spurred on by the prospect of showcasing a newly discovered talent—a girl named Eliza whose style is dark and incredibly gothic, giving her work a raw edge that Jensen doesn’t possess. She also has her second date with Michael, so right now she’ll be in the middle of rifling through her wardrobe once more. Which really, _logically_ , only leaves one person, because every other person he knows has the good sense to understand that if he’s at his studio, he doesn’t want to be reached.

Why did he turn down Sandy’s plea to help her get ready again?

Opening the door just enough to stand in it without actually letting Jared by, Jensen asks wearily, “Jared, what are you doing here?”

“I though that would be obvious,” Jared replies, and his charming grin is very nearly Jensen’s undoing. “I think we need to talk, don’t you?”

Jensen sighs. He’s suddenly thankful he has the doorframe to sag back on because he doesn’t have the energy to do this. Closure is overrated. Whatever happened to letting sleeping dogs lie? “Where was this need to talk six months ago?” he wonders aloud. “ _That_ was when we needed to talk. Now, you need to leave me alone and go back to wherever you’ve been hiding lately.”

“I haven’t been hiding. Just thought it best to stay away for a while, get my thoughts together.” Jared glances behind his back once and then over Jensen into the studio, likely remembering that Jensen shares this floor with an extremely short-tempered guy who hates any drama in the hall. One of those temperamental musician types. “Can we please go inside and talk?”

Rebelling against his better judgement Jensen moves to let Jared in. He doesn’t move quite enough; Jared brushes against him as he steps inside, and Jensen shivers at the contact, unable to stop the reflexive inhale of Jared’s familiar scent. He closes the door slowly to give himself time to regain a little composure, and has to resist the urge to yank it back open and run through it to avoid what he’s waited so many months to hear. Really, is it worth sticking around to listen to whatever it was he did that made Jared decide they just couldn’t be together any more?

Forget what Sandy said about closure, forget that right until Jared turned up _he_ wanted closure; there can’t possibly be a silver lining to this cloud.

When Jensen finally turns Jared has taken his place on the loveseat. His elbows are on his knees, chin propped up by clasped hands. Barely in Jensen’s studio three minutes and he’s already completely at home. Jensen utters a silent prayer of gratitude that he moved the jersey from where it lay yesterday; it wouldn’t do to have him see that at all.

He crosses the room to lean stiffly against the edge of his workspace; arms folded protectively across his chest as he combats the war inside between fight and flight. He’s close enough to appear friendly and ready to talk while maintaining enough distance to keep his own wits about him. The last thing he needs is for Jared’s sudden proximity to cause him to do something extremely stupid.

“So,” Jared draws out the word to grab Jensen’s attention. “You sure about this, Jen? I can go if you want; you know, back to my hiding place.”

“Just talk, Jared. I’m all for a few revelations.” At least he _thinks_ he is.

“I knew that you were my date the other night.”

Jensen looks up from the in-depth examination of his crossed ankles and the dirty rubber soles of his sneakers, tearing his eyes away from the paint flecks on them. He’s momentarily distracted by the action of Jared’s throat as it works to swallow a lump of apprehension—a strange thing all on its own as Jared is _never_ apprehensive. Always confident and self-sure, that’s his way. Jensen is the nervous mess, over-thinking everything. “You did?”

“Michael is a partner at my law firm. We’ve been hanging out a lot lately, and the other day at lunch he mentioned he was finally going to ask out this great girl who owned a gallery downtown but he wanted some moral support. And he insisted that I needed to get out more. Said I needed to stop moping. Then he showed me this picture he’d bought, said the artist was my date for the evening.” Jared explains, “I recognized your work, Jen.”

“You knew. And what, thought it’d be a huge thrill to show up and torture me like that?”

“I couldn’t back out on Michael; he’s a friend, and I promised. Besides, I knew it was the only way you were ever going to talk to me again. I wish that I had the courage to do it some other way, but I was scared if I called, you’d ignore me.” Gee, why would Jared think that? He was so good at answering Jensen’s calls, returning the messages he left. “And I figured if I turned up at the house or here, you’d sooner punch me than hear me out.”

Irrespective of how calm and relaxed Jared appears to be from his place on the loveseat, it’s obvious to Jensen that he’s still worried about a more violent physical reaction than simply hiding clenched fists beneath folded arms. Well, Jared can think what he wants, but Jensen’s already beyond the raw compulsion to yell and hit things because of this. Both Chad and Jared’s assistant had been on the receiving end of Jensen’s temper, and it hadn’t achieved anything. Achieved anything _grown up_ , that is; Sandy had briefly put aside her comforting manner after that to mock Jensen for acting like such a teenage girl.

“I don’t want a fuss,” he admits. He moves to sit on his chair, his body unconsciously mirroring Jared’s position. “Maybe you think we’re owed a blazing row; spitting accusations at one another and throwing a few punches, smashing stuff up. I don’t want to deal with that juvenile shit. I just want to know why, Jared. What happened that you suddenly wanted out, and without telling me?”

“You remember we stayed at your parents’ for their anniversary party? I kind of snapped that weekend.”

Jensen figured that much, seeing as how the day following their return Jared was gone. “So it’s my parents’ fault? That’s awesome. I’ll be sure to let my mom know when she calls next; she’ll be thrilled to hear that she’s responsible for my boyfriend leaving.”

“Would you shut up with the snarky attitude and let me talk?” Jared scolds; Jensen hears the tone and does as he’s told. “I’m not _blaming_ them. Seeing them so happy, I got to thinking about our future, Jen. I was imagining it all in my head. We had a bigger house in a better neighbourhood, with a room for you to draw so you could get rid of this place like you wanted. Maybe even a dog or two to make use of the yard.” Jared chuckles, and Jensen is gifted with the memory of an afternoon they’d spent at an animal shelter; Jared wishing they could take all the lonely dogs home. “There was even a white picket fence.”

The smile that follows is weak, but Jensen is lost. “I don’t see how that’s a bad thing, Jared,” Sappy and clichéd—like those romance novels his mom loves shamelessly—but not bad. How could a dream like that be bad?

“But then,” he presses on, “I heard you talking to your brother. You were wishing for all the same things that I fantasized about, and I freaked out because I realized I was _comfortable_ having those things with you. My whole life I believed I’d never want all that sentimental stuff, that commitment. I got scared.”

“You thought that wanting the same things for our future was scary? I’ll tell you what was scary: coming home early from my studio to spend more time with you because I didn’t want such a good weekend to be over to find Chad boxing your stuff. Even scarier: I couldn’t get a hold of you. Your phone was off and your bimbo assistant wouldn’t put my calls through. If I came to your office, I was turned away. You disappeared off the face of the fucking planet, Jared, and I had _no idea why_.”

“Jen.” Jared tries desperately to assuage Jensen’s growing anger with a soothing tone, reaching out a hand he quickly withdraws to clasp in his lap when Jensen glares at it icily.

“I know what I did was the lowest thing ever. I shouldn’t have left like that. Try to see it from my side: my relationship with you was the longest so far of my life. I never expected us to last so long. When it caught up with me that I was actually in a serious relationship, I did the easiest thing—”

 _Never expected us to last so long_. That lack of faith does nothing but rub salt in an already painful wound. If Jared didn’t believe in them, why bother at all?

“You ran.”

Jared nods in agreement, and then bows his head shamefully. His long bangs—always so long, how many times had Jensen swept them out of the way during a kiss or just to get a better look at the man he loved?—skimming forward, hiding his expression. Jensen frowns at the painful twist in his gut. Seeing Jared so broken and dejected shouldn’t affect him. He shouldn’t care so much with everything between them.

Failing spectacularly at keeping his voice devoid of as much sympathy as possible, Jensen’s hand twitches towards Jared, unable to let him suffer so quietly, “Jared—”

Entirely out of the blue Jared falls to his knees before Jensen. He nestles himself between Jensen’s thighs where his hands curl around his neck to pull him closer, and his lips move to claim him. Jensen resists to begin with.

 _Tries_ to.

That first jarringly familiar touch of Jared’s mouth, his tongue, his hands, Jensen surrenders completely because it’s a lie to deny he wants Jared close. Closer than they are. Closer than ever before. In return, he slides to his own knees to press their bodies against each other. Jared’s heart pounds right in sync with his own, the rapid thump echoing the whisper in Jensen’s mind for _more_. He’s missed Jared, missed everything from having him near to phone calls from across the city because of their schedules; there’s so much lost time to make up for.

And then his brain overrides his hormones and heart with undeniable logic, stopping his hand from participating in the mutual journey towards each others’ belt buckles. A small voice reminds Jensen of the reason for this fierce determination to have Jared this way: Jared _left_. Got scared and ran to hide like a child.

He pulls away to sit back on his heels. The frown Jared wears intensifies when Jensen prevents him from continuing their kiss by placing a hand on his chest, stopping him from leaning forward completely.

A little stunned by the gesture, Jared utters a questioning, “Jen?”

“You think this is what it’ll take?”

“What _what_ will take?”

Growling in his throat at Jared’s sudden stupidity, and his own for encouraging that kiss, Jensen climbs to his feet. He places his palms flat on the surface before him, and hangs his head until his chin touches his chest, telling himself the ache that develops there has nothing to do with being parted from Jared again, and more to do with his rocketing frustration. He knows for a fact that Jared is far from dense. He’s a lawyer by profession, successful due to his sharp mind and quick thinking; Jensen has to wonder why he’s recently been rendered oblivious.

“You think that coming in here, giving me some lame excuse for walking out on two years of our life, and kissing me like you’ve never been away makes up for everything? Really?” Jensen sighs. “You can’t make up for six months of constant wondering, constant questioning, with a quick fool around on my studio floor.”

“Jen...”

Jensen digs his fingers into the wood beneath them as Jared comes to stand behind him. He hears him move, the rustle of his clothes as he rises from the floor, and the few footsteps it takes to reach where Jensen is. His breath stills when Jared’s hand falls on his shoulder.

“I know that I hurt you. I know that you hate me right now, but that doesn’t change how I feel about you, or how sorry I am. Jen, I didn’t expect you to forgive me right away; you wouldn’t be the Jensen I know and love if you did. All I want is for you to give me a chance.”

The hand drifts down to Jensen’s bicep where Jared’s thumb strokes back and forth under the hem of his sleeve. Outwardly it’s a loving touch, gentle and intimate; all Jensen sees it as is a dirty trick on Jared’s part to cloud his decisions with something he’s craved, irrational as that may be.

“Can you do that?” Jared wonders quietly. His warm breath causes the fine hairs on Jensen’s nape to prickle in pleasure. “Give me another chance?”

“Jared, you—” Jensen clamps his mouth shut to prevent what he knows will be a needy whimper at the circles Jared’s thumb is making lightly on his skin, “Just go.”

“Jensen—”

“I said, _go_.”

Jared presses a final kiss to the sensitive flesh of Jensen’s exposed neck, removes his hand with a softly spoken, “Whatever you want,” and quite suddenly is gone.

The studio door closing behind him is deafeningly loud in the silence. A strange sound bubbles up in Jensen’s throat—an odd mix of a sob and hysterical laughter. _Whatever you want_. If things were going the way he wanted them to Jared wouldn’t have walked out the door.

Now or then.

*

Exactly a week after his impromptu blast from the past, and the worst date ever, Jensen finds himself making sure he’s presentable to face the public in front of a small mirror mounted on the wall in _The Athena_ ’s bathroom.

Glad beyond relief that Sandy allowed him to forgo the stuffy suit now shoved in the back of his closet for a more casual alternative, Jensen smoothes a crease from his jeans, and brushes a previously unnoticed dark smudge of charcoal from the sleeve of his grey sweater. How it got there, he isn’t quite sure as he hasn’t handled the material in a while, and certainly wouldn’t in this sweater. Mack gave it to him for his birthday last year, fed up that most of her brother’s wardrobe had some kind of fault through the pursuit of his art; she’d forbidden him from picking up so much as a pencil when wearing it. She may be living in New York, but Jensen wagers she’d still know if he went against her wishes. Some kind of antenna would go up, alerting her to Jensen’s disregard of her rules. And he doesn’t need to be on the receiving end of her temper, it’s scarily reminiscent of their mom’s.

Thinking of his sister saddens him a little. Since the opening of _The Athena_ three years ago, this is the first showing of his art that his family has been unable to make it to. A trip from New York to Texas made no sense for Mack to make for one night; Josh was busy with work, doing all the overtime he could in preparation for the birth of Jensen’s first nephew; and his parents had some kind of charity event to attend a few towns over. He loves Sandy, she’s practically a sister to him, but to have no familial support— _not even Jared_ , his mind so helpfully supplies—hurts somewhat.

 _Jared could have been here._

The thought springs from nowhere, catching Jensen completely off guard. He frowns at his reflection. The image frowns right back. Yes, Jared could have been here supporting Jensen if he hadn’t left.

 _If you hadn’t made him leave. He apologised, explained why he did what he did, and you turned him away_.

“Shut up,” Jensen snaps at his inner voice, “Just shut up. I have a show to do, and not even Jared Padalecki is going to interrupt.” he says defiantly. “Not even him. You got that?”

*

“Why,” Jensen hisses behind a professional smile and his second, perhaps third glass of champagne, aware that there’s an old couple a few feet away admiring one of his pieces. “is Michael’s plus one _Jared_?”

Beside him, Sandy barely glances towards the door. She sips her drink indifferently, swirling the liquid around when she lowers her glass. “Because his date—which is me, let’s not forget—is already here. I told him to bring a friend. And,” she says, inclining her glass once to stop Jensen from butting in, “I knew you wouldn’t invite Jared because you’re terribly predictable, and only seem capable of brooding about him.”

“I didn’t invite him because I didn’t want him here. Jesus, Sandy. I got my goddamn closure, why can I not get rid of him?”

He’d told her all about Jared’s visit to his studio. Not to mention he distinctly remembers telling her in perfectly clear and understandable English that he wanted nothing more to do with him. She’d advised him to get answers and move on, which he was trying to do; what possible reason is there for her to ignore her own guidance?

“Maybe because you still love him, and he still loves you. Stop being so childish and sort yourselves out.” She sashays away to greet Michael—not before Jensen gets a flash of her superior smirk. Though he’d love nothing more than to stick his tongue out at her retreating back, he refrains, fully aware it would only prove her point.

With Sandy out of the way, Jensen can properly see Eliza. More specifically, he can see when Eliza chuckles almost silently where he maybe would have missed it before. One hand stifles the sound, while the other carefully guides a line of black ink through multiple others of various colors illustrating the page in front of her. Jensen can only follow the lines so far, the complicated labyrinth of her art easily shrugging off another’s attempts to understand it.

“What is so funny?” he asks when no explanation is given for her laughter.

Her head shakes in amusement, causing more tendrils of dark hair to tumble from the loose knot at the nape of her neck. “Just you guys.”

“Sandy and me?”

“No. You and whoever this Jared guy is. You remind me of Sarah and myself.” Nonplussed, Jensen shrugs. “Your story’s an obvious one: together a while, he ditched you, and you’re spending every waking moment trying to convince yourself and everybody else you hate his guts. Sad thing is, the only person you fool is yourself.” She finally looks at Jensen, and he can’t hide she’s hit the nail on the head. “People get kind of tired of your attitude after a while, don’t they?”

Yeah, so he’s been told. “What happened to you and Sarah?”

“I got out of my own way and let her apologize.” Eliza sets her pen down, and tilts her head to appraise her drawing, idly tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Me being a stubborn bitch made us both miserable. When she gets here, I’ll introduce you.”

Jensen nods distractedly, focusing on a point past Eliza. He’s hit by a sudden bout of déjà vu the moment he spots Jared on his way over. Just like that night, he’s dressed impeccably; wearing a beautiful suit and stylish shirt with the kind of elegance that only a few can manage. Just like that night, Jensen’s struck dumb that he’s actually here, and making a determined beeline right towards him.

Humming to herself, Eliza collects her picture, scoops up her pens, and begins to wander away. Jensen, in the face of panic at Jared’s impending arrival, clutches her bare arm desperately. “Where are you going?”

“To put this safely in Sandy’s office, and grab a glass of champagne. Should probably mingle, or whatever. Right?”

“You have to stay here.”

“Why?” Jensen doesn’t need to answer. She scans the room once, her gaze settling straight on Jared. “Ah, Jared, I presume. Don’t worry, Jensen.” She pats his arm soothingly. “You guys will be fine.” Slipping from Jensen’s grasp, she walks away.

The move is perfectly timed, leaving Jensen completely vulnerable to Jared.

And what else is there for him to do other than wait for Jared to reach him? He can’t turn away and pretend like he hasn’t seen him. Nor can he turn away and find somewhere to hide until everyone has gone home. Regardless of anything Jensen might do, Jared’s path is dead-set on meeting with his. So what he does is get a hold of himself as quickly as possible by draining the rest of his champagne, wincing slightly at the after-taste.

Jared’s arrival and the feelings it stirs inside of him may be strikingly similar to last week’s dinner; however, his greeting is anything but. There’s little warmth—like Jared’s given up trying to maintain the illusion that nothing has changed between them—and Jensen realizes he misses the familiarity he initially resented so much. “Hi, Jensen.”

“Hi.”

Awkwardly silent, they stand together in the busy gallery, letting everyone else squeeze past as they each try to fumble for an opening. Eventually, it’s Jared who decides they can’t stand frozen from uncertainty all night, asking softly if there’s somewhere that the two them can talk privately.

Tossing a look over his shoulder after the briefest of hesitations, Jensen spots Eliza rejoining Sandy and Michael, hands free from her art. “Yeah,” he replies. “Come on, Sandy’s office is free.”

Jared follows obediently, remaining uncomfortably quiet until they’re shut away in the privacy of Sandy’s modest office. They take opposite ends of the small couch inside, leaving Jensen to wonder if it’s a conscious effort on Jared’s part to put as much distance between them as possible. For the same reasons Jensen had for the space between them in the studio, perhaps.

Setting his empty glass on the floor by the couch, Jensen speaks Jared’s name, quickly tiring of the stretch of time with no conversation. “You wanted to talk—”

“I wanted to apologize.”

“You already did. You said sorry at my studio, remember?”

“That’s not what I’m apologizing for, Jensen. I mean, yeah, I’m sorry for the way I left you, but that’s not what I mean now.”

“Then what, Jared? You’ve got to help me out here.”

For the first time in the office, Jared meets his eyes, regret engrained in them so very deeply. “I’m sorry for showing up everywhere, imposing myself on you when clearly that’s the last thing you need. I didn’t show up here to make a scene or convince you of anything. I just wanted to tell you face-to-face that I won’t be coming around anymore. Popping up in your life is doing nothing but hurting you, and I don’t want to do that. Not again.”

Inside his chest, Jensen’s heart clenches painfully, an iron band squeezing it tightly without sign of letting go. The last time it felt this way, Chad had been slowly and methodically removing every trace of Jared from his home and his life. He’s imagined many times that never seeing Jared again would be alright after the terrible way they left things, that he’d be perfectly okay to never hear his laugh, or listen to a story about his day, or experience his touch. Now he’s finally at that crossroad with the option to send Jared away for good, he can’t wrap his brain around why he would want that no matter how much Jared hurt him.

Before Jensen comprehends what‘s going on, Jared—evidently taking his confused silence as acceptance of the situation—stands up, and cups Jensen’s face in his hands. Tilting his head upwards, he presses a tender kiss to Jensen’s forehead.

“Jared...” Jensen breathes, but his hands are too slow in coming up to keep Jared’s hands on his face, cradling his jaw like something precious; all his fingers catch is air. Useless, empty air.

“Take care of yourself, okay? And good luck with the rest of your show; you have some beautiful pieces out. I’m proud of you, Jensen.”

“Jared,” Jensen breathes again, uselessly repeating his name even though he knows that alone isn’t enough to make Jared see this isn’t what he wants. Jared needs more words, proper sentences, to realize this isn’t for the best.

Words fail him, and the moment passes by. Once more he’s left sitting alone while Jared walks away.

*

The moment Jared takes his seat in the cracked red leather of the booth, Jensen has to fight the strong need to get up and leave. It’s a completely irrational urge as he called Jared, he asked for this meeting, and now all he wants to do is leave without saying so much as a _Hey, there_.

Likely sensing that he needs time to collect his thoughts, rather than strike up a conversation Jared attracts the attention of a waitress nearby and orders a coffee. He adds a slice of pie to his request, inclining his head once in Jensen’s direction to check if he wants something else. Jensen declines with a jerky shake of his head. If he has anything to eat now, it’ll only make him more tongue-tied than he already feels; he can’t cope with any more hindrances.

To distract himself from the unpleasant silence hanging between them while Jared waits patiently for his order, Jensen looks anywhere but at Jared. The table top is covered with a fine dusting of sugar—a perfect, improvised canvas—and he has to curl his hands into loose fists to avoid emptying the packets in the centre of the table and drawing with his finger in the crystals. He guesses the owner of this establishment wouldn’t be too happy with the mess if he did, and Jared would easily see it for what it was: Jensen avoiding the subject despite having arranged this encounter himself.

And it would be a completely accurate assessment of their current situation. A situation Jensen didn’t mean to cause. He thought this would be easy to discuss, but thinking it over as he has been has shown Jensen that there’s no easy way to broach the topic. He doesn’t know how to convey his sudden change of heart, can’t think of a reason that he can give Jared without sounding like some fickle teenager.

How can he possibly explain that it was Jared promising to leave him alone that made Jensen see that was the last thing he wanted?

“Jensen, as much as I appreciate you wanting to see me, it sounded like you wanted to talk when you called. And you sitting there, fingers itching to doodle in that mess, is making me as nervous as you look.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. I did want to—” he shakes his head, and sighs in frustration, meeting Jared’s eyes, “I _do_ want to talk. I’m just not sure how to begin.”

“Just start talking, okay? Say whatever you need to, and I’ll sit here completely silent while you do.” Jared smiles and Jensen has to smile back. The thought of him being completely silent is far too amusing; Jared doesn’t know how to be quiet. “Honest, not a peep from me until you’re done.” He mimes pulling a zipper across his lips, tucking an imaginary key into the pocket of his jeans.

And with that childish display the tension between them is gone. Free from its weight, Jensen sits a little straighter, no longer wishing to disappear into himself. The apprehension that made him hold his tongue dissolves instantly, allowing him to finally speak.

“I get that you made a decision last night, and I appreciate what you were trying to do. But I don’t care. I don’t want that. I don’t want to throw away two years of my life, the best two years of my life. I can’t, Jared.”

“Jensen, what are you—” The waitress chooses this particular moment to arrive at their table, coffee in one hand, a small plate in the other. Jared accepts his food politely and somehow manages to convey in a simple ‘thank you’ that she should leave as quickly as she’s able because their talk can’t wait. It’s an impressive skill that he’s left no time to marvel at because Jared says, “Are you saying what I think you are?”

The hope in his eyes gives Jensen the resolve to carry on. “I want to give you that second chance. But we’re taking things slowly to begin with. I can’t jump into this with both feet until I’m sure.”

“Sure of what?” The tentative way in which it’s asked makes Jensen see just how much he needs things between them to be resolved because he doesn’t like this Jared—this nervous man, fiddling anxiously with his fork, second guessing everything. And while it’s true that this Jared may be safer—there’s little chance of him causing Jensen pain if he constantly caters to each individual feeling of Jensen’s, always seeks permission for actions he once carried out based on his own decisions—he isn’t the man he fell in love with, the one he respects.

“Sure that you aren’t going to freak out in a week or a month, and skip out on me again. You won’t hurt me again.”

It isn’t a question or a timid statement. It’s definite and determined. Jared _isn’t_ going to hurt Jensen again because he’s not going to let him. He’s going to play things close to his chest to begin with, hold that delicate part of his soul tightly with both hands. And only when he’s completely positive that Jared has matured into the man he thinks— _hopes_ —he has, will he relinquish that part of him. And if Jared can’t cope with that, can’t cope with an adult relationship, then perhaps they weren’t supposed to be anyway.

Which is a possibility. Jensen can’t ask for or expect a promise of forever. He likes to believe that he’s a realistic kind of guy, and that means understanding that love and relationships have no guarantee. There’s every unfortunate chance that he and Jared could talk this out and get back on course, only to decide down the line that they were simply better apart because they wanted different things after all. But if Jared is willing to work through his insecurities and his fears then so is Jensen, because that’s what it’s about.

So, he’s practical, yes, but hopeful also. Hopeful that he and Jared can weather this. Six months of separation were near unbearable, how on Earth would he manage an entire lifetime? He’d figured out that much at least last night. No, not figured. Figuring things out implied that there was hours of thought and reasoning. Jensen simply knew he wouldn’t manage—didn’t want to manage—the second Jared left him at the gallery.

Jared drops the fork, reaches across the small table, hand weaving around their cups, to lay it over Jensen’s. The touch immediately banishes the nervous energy in Jensen’s fingertips that longs to draw, and replaces it with the need to hold on to Jared alone. “I won’t, Jen. I told you that at the gallery. This is it for me.”

 _Jen_. The nickname sounds better than ever.

“Then don’t blow this chance.”

“I won’t.”

*

Jensen leaves the cafe feeling better than he has in months. The raw ache he’s become accustomed to over these past few months is disappearing by the second. He can feel something warmer there now, something less painful. And his shoulders feel lighter almost. For so long they’ve suffered the burden of uncertainty and loneliness; that’s gone now. Banished because he and Jared have another chance to make things right between them.

Even though he’d left Jared nursing half a cup of coffee and finishing a slice of blueberry pie, within seconds a familiar voice is calling his name, and tugging on his elbow to slow his pace so that they can easily fall into step on the sidewalk.

“Jared, what are you doing?”

“Am I breaking your rules and going too fast if I ask you on a date?” Jensen’s face contorts in horror as he recalls the setting that functioned as the set for their reunion. Jared is quick to wipe that look from him. “Nowhere like that, I know you were uncomfortable there. And not just because of me. Fine dining isn’t your thing. I was thinking a burger and beer.”

“Burger and beer? I think we can handle that.”

Jared’s grin is completely infectious, hints of the old, pre-relationship-meltdown-Jared shining through beautifully. “So, I can call you to figure out a time?” The grin loses its shine.

Jensen looks sideways at Jared, frowning deeply. “Are you asking if you can call me, or telling me that you’re going to call?”

“Telling. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

In the few seconds it takes Jared to turn around to head toward his car parked down the street, Jensen makes a decision. Over the coming days and weeks there are going to be rules to follow—rules he’s set himself _for_ himself—until his and Jared’s relationship has regained some semblance of normality, until there is unshakable trust between them again. But right now, on this quiet street, outside a little-known diner, Jensen wants to forget his propensity to analyse everything to death and be impulsive for once in his life.

He deserves to be happy, doesn’t he? Deserves something intimate and familiar to act as a reminder for just one of the many reasons they were so good together? Something he’s craved for so long.

Quickly, he snakes out a hand and grabs Jared’s elbow to bring them face-to-face once more. He drinks in Jared’s surprise for all of a second and leans forward to press their mouths together. Their lips slide in tandem as naturally as they did in his studio and before their lives went to hell. Their bodies still align perfectly, chest to chest and thigh to thigh. Even when they part, Jensen unashamedly clutches the back of Jared’s jacket tightly in his hands, loving that Jared does the same, just to maintain their connection for a short while longer.

He buries his nose in the hollow of Jared’s throat, smiles when he feels Jared shiver at the feel of his breath releasing a pleased sigh. “Tomorrow?”

He shivers himself as Jared leans closer to whisper, “Tomorrow.”

*


End file.
